


Going Home

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Zevran going to the Sabrae clan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Why the Sabrae clan really helped Zevran in DA2He could have stayed in Denerim, with Alistair. He would have found a position for Zevran, no doubt. King Alistair would have been a sight to see. He could have gone with Wynne and Shale, seeking answers to questions he didn’t understand. Even Sten offered, but that would mean the Qun, and Zevran had never been good with obedience. He almost took Leliana up on hers. Her hand extended, a soft smile on her face, offering refuge. A place where he might find counsel, some kind of peace. He couldn’t accept. His destination had already been promised, to another.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	Going Home

He keeps it close to his heart. Underneath his tunic, against his skin. It is quiet as he steps through the underbrush, twigs snapping underfoot, leaves pressed into the grass. Birds chirp in the branches, a polite twittering song that jumps from tree to tree. A song, carried by a choir. Were he still travelling with the others, he would never have known its melody. Oh. It catches him in the chest. He reaches out, presses his hand against the rough bark of a tree as he doubles over. His other hand on his knee, and he thinks he might be sick. He breathes quickly, fleeting inhales, over much too soon. The necklace slips from his shirt, dangles beneath him.

He had heard the offers, of course. He could have stayed in Denerim, with Alistair. He would have found a position for Zevran, no doubt. King Alistair _would_ have been a sight to see. He could have gone with Wynne and Shale, seeking answers to questions he didn’t understand. Even Sten offered, but that would mean the Qun, and Zevran had never been good with obedience. He almost took Leliana up on hers. Her hand extended, a soft smile on her face, offering refuge. A place where he might find counsel, some kind of peace. He couldn’t accept. His destination had already been promised, to another.

He could only watch. With sweat slick hands, he holds tightly to his swords. She brings her own sword over her head, blood on her lips. A grimace of grim determination crosses her face as she stabs it downwards, into the soft flesh of the Archdemon. The resulting explosion knocks Zevran off his feet, back several paces. His ears ring with the sound of it, his body aches with the force of it. His swords are _somewhere_ now, but they don’t matter. Three worlds slowly merge into one as Zevran closes his eyes, shakes the tolling from his head. He forces himself to his feet. Somehow, she’s still standing.

His steps are slower than he means them to be as he closes the distance between them, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for her. She has dropped the sword. She stands stone still, slightly hunched over, her hand pressed against her chest. Her hair is a veil around her face. Her head slowly turns, to look at him. He watches with horror as the darkened lines of taint begin to creep up from the line of her armor, twist around her neck, and touch at her face. “My Warden,” he says, his voice breaking, his words barely able to rise above a whisper. “ _Mi amor_.” Words spoken far more desperately, as he finally finds himself in front of her, wrapping his arms around her.

“Zevran. _Vhenan_ ,” she says, clinging to him tightly. He feels her breathe against his neck, his jaw, his cheek. “Everything will be alright. You’ll be fine.” She presses her hand over where she knows the necklace to sit. “Don’t forget.” Her kiss tastes of iron, of salt. She smiles even as her eyes turn cloudy and grey, her hand soft against his cheek. She gently wipes away his tears. She sighs as she rests her head on his shoulder, indulges herself in one last hug. He holds her up with him for as long as he can, until his knees buckle. He sinks to the ground with Mahariel in his arms, and weeps over her body.

Zevran isn’t sure when it ends, just that it does. He lies on the forest floor, watches the world sway with the wind. He holds his hand over his face, looks at the dried blood there. The bark had bit into his skin, tiny cuts which pepper his palm. It takes him a few more hours, but what are those few compared to the weeks of travel? The Free Marches will take time to be more familiar to him. Still, a mountain is an easy thing to find. There is only one entrance to the camp at the base of Sundermount. He approaches with his hands raised, his hair pulled away from his face, pointed ears. His elvish is poor, unserviceable. He tries.

“Aneth ara,” he says, as she taught him, but his pronunciation is painful to even his ears and he winces. “I was sent by one of your clan, to find Keeper Marethari.” The guards speak in fluent elvish, too quick for him to understand. They gesture for him to follow. Curious eyes follow him as he walks through the camp. They lead him to an older woman, her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. The vallaslin touches all parts of her face. Absentmindedly, he brushes a hand against his tattoo.

“ _Andaran atish’an_. We do not have many visitors. I am told,” she says after the guards have finished speaking and returned to their post, “You have been sent by one of our clan. May I ask who?”

Carefully, he pulls the necklace over his head. He slowly lets it fall into her palm. She rubs her fingers over the beads. Hundreds of them, all uniquely carved into the shape of a different animal. They chase each other round and round. Curiosity gives way to understanding, and her eyes grow sad, the corners of her lips turning downwards. “ _Da’len na melana sahlin, emma ir abelas. Souver’inan isala hamin_ ,” she murmurs as she rubs her thumb over the shape of a wolf.

“I do not understand,” Zevran says, his words pricked with pain. She looks up at him, as though she had forgotten he stood there, and her face softens.

“I am saddened to hear of her loss. She was a gift to us, as was Tamlen. Now we have lost them both,” Marethari says. “Yet, we have gained another. Stay a while with us, rest. I would like to hear of all that happened to her after she was forced to leave us.” She holds out the necklace for him. He almost takes a step back, stops himself.

“My Warden, ah, I promised her to bring it to you. I think, perhaps, she meant for you to have it,” he says. Marethari chuckles not unkindly, shakes her head. She takes his hand by force, presses the necklace to him, and folds his fingers over it. She keeps his hand there, clasped in hers.

“No, _da’len_. She did not. She meant for you to find some comfort in family. You do not need to be alone to mourn her.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


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